


Secret Admirer

by Dragon_and_Direwolf, LustOnMyFingers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anonymous Love Letter, F/M, Fluff, High School AU, Modern AU, Modern Era, Opposites Attract, Possible trigger warning for a homophobic slur, Romance, Secret Admirer, Teenagers, emo!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27253996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/pseuds/Dragon_and_Direwolf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LustOnMyFingers/pseuds/LustOnMyFingers
Summary: While at school, Jon receives an anonymous love letter in his locker. Determined to discover the identity of its author, he seeks outside help.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 81
Kudos: 284





	Secret Admirer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyTarg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTarg/gifts).



> Jenn - We couldn't help ourselves. We just had to bring this silly modern AU headcanon to life. I hope emo!Jon brings a smile to your face on your nameday. Lots of love from your pals! ♥
> 
> Art by the talented [Dragon_and_Direwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/). If you like it, please leave her some love in the comments!

* * *

Jon's eyes snapped open. From his bed, he grabbed for his phone beside him, blinking the numbers into focus. Twenty-eight after six—just two minutes before his alarm. From his walls, Gerard Way and Tom DeLonge cast judgmental glances as he lie there, weighing the pros and cons of faking sick.

The floor below him stirred to life as he climbed out of bed and began to dress in the dark—pulling a pair of ripped jeans over his legs and black fishnet over his arms. If he was quick, he might even make it to the bathroom before his sister Sansa. She caught sight of him at the bottom of the staircase, the pair breaking into a sudden dash for the door.

Skidding across the carpet, Jon beat her there by seconds, socks slipping on tile as they wrestled with the knob. He won, as he always did, slamming the door shut and locking her out.

"Bastard!"

A disciplinary retort echoed throughout the hallway in their father's voice: " _Language_ _!_ "

Jon gave a victorious laugh.

Just outside, he heard a stomp and a frustrated grunt: "Ugh!"

Only once every last curl was perfect, did Jon emerge—immediately shoved aside by Sansa as she pushed her way into the bathroom next. With his sister distracted and the hallway clear, Jon slipped inside her room. He went straight to her vanity, scanning her makeup selection for a stick of black eyeliner. Stepping in front of her mirror, he quickly traced around either eye.

On his way back up to his room in the attic, Jon passed by his brother Robb, half-naked, fists pounding against the bathroom door.

"Hurry up in there!"

" _Go away_ _!_ " Sansa shrieked.

In his room, Jon gathered the notebooks from his desk before stuffing them in his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He snapped a studded bracelet on his wrist after a spritz of cologne—oakmoss, leather, and lavender—the only scent dark enough to match his mood.

Now that he was _finally_ ready, he sped down the stairs and straight for the door, grabbing his favorite black hoodie from the hook beside it. Somewhere in the distance he could hear shouting:

" _Muummm!!_ Jon used my eyeliner again!" 

"For the last time, leave your sister's things _alone!_ "

Jon just rolled his eyes, slamming the door behind him.

Outside, he retrieved his bike from the side of the garage, sun-bleached and weathered band stickers all up and down its black bars. He lifted a boot to flip the kickstand as he rolled it into the driveway. There was a knock from a second floor window as he slipped his earbuds in. He looked up to see his little sister Arya sticking her tongue out at him. He grinned and waved goodbye.

The morning was crisp. But Jon liked to be cold. Wind nipped at his ears as he rode, brushing over his bare knuckles and rippling his sleeves. The sun's first rays strobed between the trees as he pedaled by. Gliding downhill, sometimes it almost felt like he might just fly away.

A car rolled to a stop beside him as they reached an intersection. Jon turned to see an old, caramel-colored Dodge Dart, one he recognized immediately. _As if Grey wasn't cool enough already_ , he thought, somewhat bitterly. At seventeen, Jon was old enough to drive—but with five siblings, there was no way his parents could afford more than two cars. For now, his bike would have to do.

The passenger window was rolled down. Inside, he could hear commotion, faint laughter. And when Jon got a proper look inside, his heart skipped a beat.

Though Missandei, Grey's girlfriend, sat beside him—behind her sat _Daenerys_.

Daenerys Targaryen.

When she had first moved to town, everyone flocked around her because she was the new girl. Because she was pretty. He assumed her as shallow as all the others, he assumed they had nothing at all in common. She was easy enough to ignore.

Since she was a grade below him, the pair shared just one class—creative writing. She'd chosen the seat beside him in the back, but they had never once spoken. Jon liked that she kept to herself, never bothered him, ignored that he sneaked macabre classics behind his textbook to read during class.

Months passed without Jon sparing her much thought. She wasn't his type—or, at least, he didn't think so. Where he was cold, she was warm. Where he was dark, she was bright. She was conventional, he was, well, _strange_.

He remembered the day it all changed, though. Mr. Seaworth refused to continue the day's lesson until someone, _anyone_ , recited the parts of speech aloud. Though Jon rarely ever participated in class, he couldn't take his teacher's disappointment anymore, and raised his hand. But it wasn't he who'd been called upon—but her.

Following an exasperated sigh, each part slipped from her tongue one-by-one: noun, pronoun, verb, adverb, adjective, article, conjunction, preposition, interjection.

Jon hated that it impressed him. And from that day forward, he found himself watching her—how she always scribbled away in her notebook in lieu of paying attention. Over the weeks he'd sneak, as nonchalantly as he could, peeks at what it was she wrote. Stories, often as grisly as the ones he liked, maybe more: an exiled princess turned conqueror, dragons versus ice zombies, war-torn kingdoms mended by unity. His favorite, though, was about a commander cornered with knives in the darkness—only to resurrect and wreak hell and revenge. He still wanted to know how that one ends.

But that sort of inquiry would require _actually_ speaking to her. A feat Jon found most impossible—especially as he sat beside her, peering into the backseat, hands frozen on his handlebars. Staring. Just staring.

Reluctant violet eyes met his. Daenerys was almost certainly unsettled by his leering, awkwardly brushing a lock of silver hair behind her ear. _Gods_ , she was pretty. He just couldn't bring himself to look away. Not even as the car pulled off, shrinking into the distance.

Before he could regather his wits, a car honked as it, too, passed by—a red Audi convertible, the sight of which filled Jon with fresh resentment.

" _Faggot!_ "

Theon Greyjoy—who else?—his shoulders shaking with laughter as he drove away. It was too late for a retort, but Jon gave his reply anyway: flipping the bird and catching an eye-roll in the rearview mirror. From the passenger seat, his brother Robb turned and offered Jon an apologetic shrug.

He sighed, kicked off of the ground, and pedaled onward.

When he pulled up to the bike rack, his stomach did a flip. Nearby and leaning against the wall was Daenerys, alongside Grey and Missandei, folders and textbooks pressed tightly to her chest. Again, he caught her eye, and _again_ , she tucked her hair behind her ear—leaving Jon short of breath. 

After locking his bike, he rose and passed by them. Grey took a discreet drag from a cigarette from behind a cupped palm. He nodded to Jon in greeting, Daenerys and Missandei whispering by his side. Before the door closed behind him, Jon heard a gasp and a giggle. As the 'weird kid' in high school, he'd come to hate the sound of laughter. Logically, he knew that Daenerys—and Missandei, too—were too kind to mock others. After all, he wouldn't like her so much otherwise. Yet, he couldn't shake the feeling it had something to do with him.

Scowling, Jon trudged towards his locker, tugging it open and stuffing his bag inside. From it, he retrieved his Creative Writing handbook and The Jewel of Seven Stars and tucked them under his arm.

The bell rang and students scattered. Jon pushed his way through the mass towards Mr. Seaworth's class—unfortunately catching Theon Greyjoy's attention.

"Well, if it isn't _Jon Strange_ ," he said, the leather of his letter jacket squeaking as he folded his arms. "That eyeliner makes you look like a girl."

"Clever," Jon said. "Seems like your fifth year of high school is finally paying off!"

Theon's eyes narrowed, but he wasn't quick enough to formulate a retort before Jon ducked into his classroom. Daenerys had beat him there, all of her things scattered over her small desk as if she'd been there for hours. Tongue poking at the corner of her mouth, she looked lost in concentration, scrawling away.

He stood at the front of the room as students trickled in around him, just staring. Silver hair fell around her shoulders, bouncing with every loop of her pen. She was draped in a white cardigan, unbuttoned to give a peek of a coral top underneath, and a pair of light blue jeans sitting high on her hips.

Looking at her, Jon could hardly believe he once felt indifferent toward her. Now, his infatuation was like a sickness—it left him feeling ill. Jon had no business pining for Daenerys Targaryen. He was _strange_ , he knew, and she was, _well_ -

She was _adjectives_. All the good ones, anyway. Bright and determined, talented and fascinating, kind and attractive...

"Please take your seats."

The sound of Mr. Seaworth's voice brought Jon back down to earth. When he realized he was the only student left standing, he flushed. Quickly, he walked to his seat, dropping his books on his desk. Beside him, he saw Daenerys jump from the noise. If he could speak to her, he might've apologized.

Instead, as the lesson began, Jon opened his textbook, setting it upright on his desk to use as a bookstand. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate on the novel he'd hidden inside—he couldn't fight the urge to spy Daenerys. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her crumple a sheet of paper and brush it aside. She pushed her pencil to the paper once more and tried again.

All throughout the hour, she ripped sheet after sheet from her notebook, crushing them into balls with her hands. Whenever she caught him looking, Jon just played it off—running his hand through his hair so it fell over his eyes. In spite of his best efforts, he couldn't tell what it was she was up to. He supposed it was none of his business, anyway.

Despite sitting in the back of the class beside him, Daenerys was first to the door when the bell rang. It made Jon's heart sink, knowing he might not see her again until the following morning. He took his time as usual, waiting until the class emptied before making his way into the hallway and back to his locker.

When he pulled the door open, something came tumbling out and onto the floor. Jon looked down, spotting something between his feet. He bent to retrieve it—a note?

Before opening it, he took a glance around. Not a single soul seemed to notice him. Cautiously, he unfolded the paper—immediately struck with the scent of vanilla, almonds, and musk. Inside, there was a pink kiss mark—the sight alone enough to make him flush. The words were penned in coiled cursive, red hearts on either side of his name:

Jon, 

You're so cute it hurts. Do you suppose that's why they call it a crush?

"There is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion."

\- Your Secret Admirer ♥

Blinking in disbelief, Jon simply stood there, staring down at the note—heart thumping a little too hard in his chest. Had it not been addressed specifically to him, he might've assumed it'd been dropped in the wrong locker altogether.

The bell rang.

Carefully, he folded it back up and tucked it between the pages of his notebook. As nonchalantly as he could, Jon looked around again—feeling _invisible_ rather than admired.

He was late for his next class. And though Mrs. Tyrell began her lesson, Jon never heard a single word of it, nor had he paid attention to a single word passed between his friends, Pyp and Grenn. Like the books he'd sneak into his classes, Jon hid the note in his textbook, analyzing it as best he could, memorizing each word.

Realizing Jon was stuck in his own world, Grenn nudged his arm.

"What's that?"

"Nothing," Jon lied.

When Mrs. Tyrell turned her back, he reached across Jon's desk to snatch it.

" _Hey_ ," Jon hissed. "Give it back!"

But he didn't. Nervously, Jon picked at his painted nails, chipping away at the black polish until Grenn had finished reading and let out a, " _Whoa_."

"It's a joke," Jon insisted.

"Let me see," Pyp said, and Grenn passed it another desk further.

Anxiety churned in Jon's stomach. He wanted it back. No, he wanted to throw it away.

"You think it's a joke?" he asked after a moment.

"Theon, probably," Jon guessed.

"I don't think so," Pyp said, leaning onto his desk to whisper with Jon. "There's no way in seven hells he could spell ' _proportion_ '."

"Fair point."

"And those lips? Definitely _not_ Greyjoy's," Grenn pointed toward the kiss mark. "Talk about DSL."

Outwardly, Jon rolled his eyes. Inwardly, he agreed.

"You know who wears that shade of lipstick?" Pyp asked.

"Who?"

"The new girl."

"Fuck off," Jon blurted. He'd been so careful up till then, leaving her out of his deliberation so as not to set himself up for disappointment.

"You should take it to Seaworth," Grenn suggested.

"Why?"

"Well, he's seen everyone's writing, hasn't he? He could tell you who it is."

Jon clapped his friend's shoulder. "Grenn, I could kiss you."

"I'd rather kiss _her_ ," he said, pointing to the pink mark.

Jon snatched the note out of his hands.

For the rest of class, he eyed the clock as the hands dragged over each minute. When the bell finally rang, he was first to the door—breaking into a jog once in the hallway. Out of breath, he stumbled back into Mr. Seaworth's class. He was behind his desk, grading a pile of submitted assignments. Jon stopped in front of his teacher and cleared his throat.

"Jon," he greeted. "Forget something?"

"I have a question," he blurted.

"Shoot."

"If, _hypothetically_ , someone received an anonymous love note, would you be able to tell who wrote it, based on their handwriting?"

Mr. Seaworth lifted a hand to pull his glasses down his nose, peering over them at Jon. "Hypothetically, yes..."

Having nothing to lose, Jon relinquished the letter, allowing his teacher to inspect it. He lifted a brow—perhaps in recognition.

"Well? Who is it?"

"I'll tell you what," Mr. Seaworth said. "Give me a few hours to make comparisons. Come back at the end of the day. I might have an answer for you, then."

Feeling defeated, Jon wandered into the hallway just as the second bell rang—meaning he was late to his next class. He didn't care. Not about being late, not about his classwork and lessons, not about anything but pushing through the remainder of his school day.

All of it passed in a blur until the final bell rang—signaling not only his freedom, but a possible answer to the very question that had plagued him since the morning:

Who was his secret admirer?

Again, Jon practically ran through the hallways until he reached Mr. Seaworth's class. His stomach didn't know whether to sink or flip upon seeing Daenerys inside—the pair deep in conversation, her lips pressed together, expression almost worried. It made his priorities seem silly in comparison. But he just had to know, else the suspense might just kill him.

Teetering on his heels impatiently, Jon waited in the hallway until they were finished. Before she even had the chance to walk away, Mr. Seaworth called Jon inside. Daenerys passed by him, their shoulders nearly brushing—the almost-touch spurring a swarm of butterflies in his belly. For a moment he almost convinced himself he'd smelled almonds and vanilla. Maybe even musk.

"Take a seat," Mr. Seaworth said, gesturing toward the chair beside his desk.

Feeling light-headed, now, Jon was grateful to sit. His teacher returned the letter, sliding it over his desk toward Jon.

"Do... do you know who it is?"

Mr. Seaworth folded his hands upon his desk. "Are you sure you want to know?"

Jon put a shaking hand over the note. It still smelled of vanilla and almonds. The scent almost hypnotic. It made him feel dizzy. It made him feel ill. He nodded.

The man grinned. "I'm surprised you don't recognize the quote."

"What?"

"It's Poe."

Jon blinked. "Poe?"

"As in Edgar Allen," Mr. Seaworth said, quirking a brow. "You know, author of the books you like to read during class."

Jon's face flushed hot. "Sorry," he stammered, "I- I know I shouldn't-"

Mr. Seaworth cut him short with a chuckle. "Do you suppose there might be anyone else who might notice these not-so-secret reading habits?"

"Well, I don't know..."

"Think, Jon."

His brow furrowed as he considered. He was seated in the back corner of the room, his book angled toward the wall. Jon had always assumed he'd hidden it well.

"A neighbor, perhaps?"

The moment Mr. Seaworth spoke the words, it seemed obvious. The crumpled papers all over her desk—they were just drafts. The way she rushed into the hall the instant class had ended. Still, Jon couldn't believe it—fighting the urge to revel and shaking his head, instead. " _No_."

"Yes," he insisted.

Jon gripped the armrests, feeling like he might slip into a freefall if not.

"Listen, Jon," Mr. Seaworth warned. "And this is important."

He lifted his eyes, still blinking in disbelief. "Yeah?"

"I decided to help you because I like you. But she wrote that letter in confidence. So if you're not interested-"

"Not _interested_ ," Jon laughed. "That's a good one."

Mr. Seaworth said nothing. Jon's mind ran wild in the silence. A sudden alternate reality flashed before his eyes: walking her to and from school, to and from her classes, penning his own love notes to slip into her locker, making illustrations for her stories, letting her borrow his favorite hoodie so that it smelled like vanilla, almonds, and musk whenever she returned it.

"You should talk to her," he urged.

"If only it were that easy," Jon laughed. "I've tried to talk to her, but it just doesn't work. She's so pretty it makes my head spin," he gushed. "I can't imagine saying anything intelligible to her face."

"It doesn't have to be to her face, _necessarily_."

Jon furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

His teacher's eyes drifted toward the door. Jon's stomach dropped at once. He knew what was behind him, even before he could cast a glance over his shoulder to be sure. There she was, standing in the doorway—a bag over her arm and a pair of books pressed tightly to her chest.

Jon rose, stuffing her note into the pocket of his hoodie, taking slow and awkward steps toward her—stopping close enough to catch a proper whiff—vanilla, almonds, musk. She pressed her pink lips together, a perfect match to her flushed cheeks, but most _importantly_ , to the kiss-mark on the note in his pocket.

"Missandei left with Grey," she explained, tucking a lock of silver hair behind her ear, lashes fluttering as she shyly looked away. "Maybe you could walk me home?"

She held out a hand for Jon to take. Words didn't come to him, not yet, but he did find enough courage to slip his fingers between hers as they set off. His chest tightened from her touch, and no matter how much he inhaled, he still felt short of breath.

As they walked hand-in-hand, he supposed that, _yes_ , that's exactly why they call it a crush. Judging by the way she looked at him, though, what he supposed now was that Daenerys wouldn't be _just_ his crush for much longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥


End file.
